PORFLE VS. DRUGS

"Here, kid...the first one's free."

Boy, I wish I had a nickel for every time I've heard that.  It's the classic "come-on" of the neighborhood "pusher" (dope dealer), heard on playgrounds across America every minute of every day.  Yeah kid, the first one's free, all right, but you pay a price just the same--your soul. 

I know, because it happened to me.  I was that kid on the playground, getting my first "taste" for free and getting "hooked" (addicted).  That's when I started hanging around different playgrounds.  Pretty soon, I was showing up at playgrounds all over town until the free samples ran out.  I became a master of disguise, passing myself off as different kids so I could keep getting that first "free one." 

It wasn't long before I was reduced to wearing wigs and dresses.  Ever run into a cute little blonde-haired girl named Sally Finkleman while you were out playing on the swings or the see-saw?  That was me.  It worked, too, until I was in my mid-thirties and the story about my "glandular condition" began to wear thin.  You can't fool anyone forever--not even "hop heads" (chronic drug users).

Pretty soon, the "high" simply wasn't good enough anymore, and I was just itching to make the leap from marijuana to harder drugs.  But then, it happened...the thing that changed my life.  Saved it, in fact.  While channel surfing one afternoon in search of something to "get off on" (enjoy) during my drug-induced "high", I saw my first episode of "Dragnet."

Thanks to Joe Friday, I learned that LSD makes you want to paint your face yellow and blue and bury your head under a vacant lot.  Or that people who are "high" often slur their speech so badly that they begin to talk exactly like Merv Griffin's former bandleader, Jack Sheldon.  Or that frequent drug users usually become addicted to other things, such as lava lamps and sitar music.  And they dress funny, too.

"Dragnet" gave me a lot to think about, but I wasn't ready to give up drugs just yet.  Not until the night I dreamed that Joe Friday and Bill Gannon showed up in my livingroom.  It seemed as real as anything.  There was Joe, in his suit and tie, glaring down at me like I'd just officially announced my membership in the Communist party or something.  I knew why they were there, and began my feeble protest.  "Look, Pops...I like drugs, and nothing you say is gonna--"

"Listen up, punk," Friday interrupted in his no-nonsense monotone, "because this just might do your sorry ass some good.  You think you're unique, special, one-of-a-kind, 'hot stuff'... a young kid, up and coming, fairly good-looking, moderately talented, could probably find his way out of a paper bag, if it were a small bag and he had a map...he gets a break, hits the big time, gets himself invited to the parties, the coffee joints, the opium dens, the rave-ups, the 'love-ins', the turn-ons, the bashes, the crashes, the bath houses...the 'pleasure pits' where the love is free and the only price you pay is your eligibility to become a mailman..."

"...and then one day you get 'turned on' to your first taste of pot, grass, reefer, dope, gage, loco weed, Mary Jane, Lincoln's Birthday...you try a few puffs of 'joint' and then suddenly you go from being an up-and-comer to a down-and-outer...hopped up on happy weed and headed for a one-way trip to Nowheresville on the next cheap bus outta town..."

"...and pretty soon you're a familiar face in every back alley in town because you spend all your time turning tricks with winos for nickels so you can afford your next 'fix'...doing things that would make a dog throw up his guts for just a few more uppers, downers, bennies, dexies, hexies, Richard Nixies, Pixie Stix...boopies, floopies, fuckles, chuckles, schmuckles, feckles, grackles, pickles, poppers, boppers, floppers, door-stoppers...scooters, pooters, freakies, squeakies..."

"Stop it!  You're scaring me!" I screamed.

"Yeah, I've seen your kind, kid, I've been a cop long enough to see 'em all...the jerks, the punks, the creeps, the gang-bangers, the pill-poppers, the pud-knockers...not to mention the certified public accountants...and they all had one thing in common."

"What...what's that?" I stammered.

"They all got the first one free."  With that, Joe looked over at Bill.  Bill nodded, and Joe nodded back, and they both looked at me.  I woke up screaming.

And that's why I'll never take another drug.  Because I've been there, done that, and suffered the consequences.  Oh, I didn't quite hit rock bottom...thanks to a guy named Jack Webb.  But I came close enough to feel the fetid breath of doom in my face.  And that's why, as I write this, I am totally drunk on my ass on Old Crow Kentucky straight bourbon whiskey.  Man, that is some good stuff.  And better than any "high" you can get from drugs, let me tell you.

PORFLE VS. TV

(NOTE: This is an old one so most of these shows aren't even on anymore.  So just think of it as a nostalgic trip down memory lane blah blah blah.)

I haven't had cable-TV for two years, and I can't pick up local stations either, so I have no idea what the hell is on TV these days.  I haven't even seen a single episode of most of the newer shows.  So I've decided to tell you why I hate them anyway.

"American Idol":  I hate this show.  I actually watched a couple of episodes when it first came on, and it made me want to go on a tri-state killing spree.  It's embarrassing to see people get up and try to sing in front of everybody, with the naive idea that they'll sound just like they think they sound when they're singing in front of the mirror at home, which they don't.

Watching them glance around nervously as this realization begins to sink in and the flop sweat starts gushing out of their armpits is just painful, especially when Simon Cowell starts giving them that look that says "I hate you and you should die horribly for wasting this valuable minute of my precious life with your wretched presence, you worthless piece of human garbage."

Even the people who are pretty good are just average.  I mean, Kelly Clarkson?  Clay Aiken?  I could throw flour tortillas at my turntable and it would sound just as good.  William Hung?  Ha, ha, that was funny for about as long as it took me to start projectile vomiting all over my livingroom.  Listening to this crap instead of my very own record collection full of great music would be like saying "T-bone steak?  No, thanks--I'm going to fill up on this delicious Halloween candy corn instead."

Simon Cowell is a colossal horse's ass.  In fact, I'd love to see his entire head forcibly shoved up an elephant's asshole during halftime at the Super Bowl.  Randy Jackson--is he like, the guy from the Jackson Five?  I swear I never even made the connection until about two hours ago.  He looks like what would happen if Gary Coleman turned into the Hulk.  And Paula, I kinda liked that song you did that time.  Now go pose for a bunch of naked pictures while you still look good so we'll have them to enjoy after you old out.

"Lost":  I hate this show.  I've never seen it, but I hate it.  "Lost" is the show everybody mentions whenever the conversation turns to television.  "Have you seen 'Lost'?"  No, I haven't.  "Well, you should watch it."  Well, you should go have sex with your dog.

I think "Lost" is about some people whose plane crashed on a remote island or something.  Gosh, that's original.  Except for that show back in the friggin' 60s called "The New People" about some people whose plane crashed on a remote island.  Or that show called "Gilligan's Island" about some people whose boat set ground on the shore of a remote island.  Or that other movie or TV series about some people who got stranded on a remote island.

Maybe somebody should start "The Remote Island Channel"--they would never run out of programming.  "But this show is different", I can hear you saying.  Oh my god...I'm hearing voices.  I knew this would happen eventually.  What was the sales pitch for this thing anyway?  "It's CASTAWAY meets AIRPORT meets TWIN PEAKS!!!"  Well, how about "me" meets "you" meets "shut up."

"CSI":  I hate this show.  Or rather, these shows, since this is one of those concepts, like "Law and Order", which was just so great that a single series couldn't contain it.  I hate "Law and Order."  Somebody should've dropped Shelley Winters on Jerry Orbach while they still had the chance.  "Law and Order" is produced by a guy named Dick Wolf.  I'd love to see him filling out one of those forms where you have to put your last name first:  "Wolf, Dick."  He sounds like a gay monster in a porno horror flick.  "Oh my god, it's DICK WOLF!  RUN!"

Anyway, I watched "CSI" once, so I know that the big draw is that it's about dead people and stuff.  Oh boy, can't get enough dead people.  Hey, look--dead people!  Let's examine them!  The star of the show is one of my favorite actors, William Petersen, from two of my favorite movies, TO LIVE AND DIE IN L.A. and MANHUNTER, which most idiots have never even heard of.  Now, instead of being known for these great movies, he will be forever known as "the CSI guy."

If I try to mention one of these movies to someone and say that William Petersen is in it, they will invariably say "Oh yeah...he's the guy from 'CSI'" and I will say "SHUT UP!!!" and try to kill them.  Until it occurs to me that if I kill them, then a CSI team will be sent out to investigate, which would be genuine irony and not just Alannis Morissette irony like "rain on your wedding day" or something.  And I hate irony.  It's fun in the movies, but if something ironic happens in real life, it usually sucks.

"Desperate Housewives":  No.  Just no.

"Dancing With The Stars":  I hate this show.  This is another one I've never seen, and it makes me glad that I don't have TV and can watch only DVDs and videotapes, because I have a whole bunch of DVDs and videotapes that don't have stars trying to dance, and I can watch hours and hours of fabulous entertainment without even once seeing a star trying to dance.

And if a DVD actually does contain footage of a star trying to dance, there's usually some indication of this on the cover so that I'm forewarned and can run outside real quick and toss it like a Frisbee as hard as I possibly can and try to hit my neighbor's front door across the street so they'll think someone's knocking on their door and go answer it, and if the DVD somehow survives the impact they go "hey, free DVD" and take it inside, and then they have to decide whether to watch the DVD or "Dancing With The Stars" that night, right before I burn their house down.  And then a CSI team is sent out to investigate the next day, and I scream "IRONY!  YAAAAAAA!!!" and it's just like being in a story O. Henry might have written right after somebody dropped Shelley Winters on him.

PORFLE VS. SPAM

(This is an old one, so when I talk about "this new spam" it's really the old spam.) 

I don't understand why this new spam is filled with such ridiculous-sounding names and absurd nonsense phrases.  I just got one on Yahoo! mail from a sender named Buford Hendrix, containing a lame sex site link and the message:

forger melodiously
disgustful nonpopery

What the hell is that supposed to mean?  I engage in nonpopery every day, and so does everyone else I know since I don't happen to know any popes.  What possible extreme of wanton nonpopery could one possibly engage in for it to be described as "disgustful"?  As for the other thing, it's nice to tell someone to do things melodiously, but "forgering" doesn't really lend itself to melodiousness.  It isn't even a friggin' verb, for Pete's sake.  It's like saying "rhinoceros discreetly" to someone and expecting them to do it.

Oh, and while I was on the dictionary website looking up "forger" to see if there was any possible way to use it as a verb, I also decided to look up "nonpopery" to see if it really meant what I thought it did.  Well, it isn't a word, either.  "Popery" refers to "the doctrines, practices, and rituals of the Roman Catholic Church" and is described as an "offensive" term.  But there's no reference to nonpopery, probably for the same reason there aren't words like nonclownery, nonbrainsurgeonery, or noncrackwhorery. If you aren't acting like a clown, a brain surgeon, or a crackwhore, there simply isn't any need for there to be a word for it.  People just don't point at other people and exclaim, "Wow!  Get a load of that amazing display of nonpopery!  Take a picture, Harry."

I'm going through my current backlog of Outlook Express spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, fan letters, marriage proposals, spam, spam, spam, and spam right now, and the first thing I see is a message from someone named Iorgo Gamaliel with the topic line, "Muscovy diffractometer see flageolet consume sowbelly advisee."  Okay, no human being could have invented that line.  It must've been churned out by some computer that has been set on "silly."  And I don't know why this is supposed to get me all excited to open this particular message, read it, and click on or purchase whatever it's promoting.  I don't think I really need a Muscovy diffractometer right now, and I'm not sure I'm interested in anything a sowbelly advisee would have to say while being consumed by a flageolet.  Personally, I think Iorgo Gamaliel must be some kind of a nut.

Another message, from a Cletus Mungo, promises "babe gushing Santiago Souza."  Okay, I don't want to see a babe gushing Santiago Souza.  If I wanted to see a babe gushing something, it sure as hell wouldn't be Santiago Souza.  It sounds like either a Mexican wrestler or some kind of spaghetti sauce.  Anyway, it strikes me as something a gynecologist would have nightmares about.

Here's one: "Sexy chortlers Russian beauties."  Hmm...come to think of it, chortling is kind of sexy.  I'd pay to see some Russian beauties chortling, as long as it costs, like, a nickel.  But I kinda doubt if whatever shitty website this is promoting has a nickel membership level.  Along the same lines, another subject line reads "Sexy overcapitalized Russian beauties."  Oh my god, I think I'd pay a whole dime to see that.

Ed Schneider--and who could refuse an offer from a stranger named Ed Schneider?--proclaims "implacable Frigidaire bernadine illusionary district childlike architect christy checkup."  Ed, it's taking a monumental effort of willpower to keep me from throwing my life's savings at you just to find out what the hell that means.

Palmer Vanderbilt says, "I'd love to meet you, I am ANGELICA."  Well, who are you--Palmer Vanderbilt or ANGELICA?  I wouldn't mind meeting someone named Palmer Vanderbilt, just to kick him in the balls.  But if I did, ANGELICA would probably beat the crap out of me.

Finally, Imelda Mokienko offers to show me "gorgeous European hoattie gets drilled hard."  Well, thank you, Imelda.  Nothing like a gorgeous hoattie getting drilled, especially if she's European.  And hard, too.  I just can't watch porn anymore unless someone gets drilled hard.  The harder the better.  I was watching some porn with the guys the other day, and I remember saying, "You know, this is pretty good porn, but I just don't think that hoattie is getting drilled hard enough.  Don't you have anything with harder drilling in it?" and one guy said "How about 'Drill Hard' starring Bruce Weenis?" and I said "Oh, boy!  Yay!"  I didn't really--I'm just being sarcastic.

PORFLE'S SMART HALLOWEEN IDEA

Well, with Halloween fast approaching again as it always does roughly this time of year, I was sitting around trying to think of some fun things to do to celebrate. I really had my "thinking cap" on as I sat watching INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS for the 739th time, when suddenly it occurred to me that a really fun Halloween thing to do would be to kill Hitler!

I quickly realized, of course, that it was too late to do that, and then I was proud of myself for realizing this so fast instead of wasting a lot of valuable time trying to act upon my impulsive idea like I did last Halloween when I tried to save the Titanic from sinking and got sued by James Cameron.

That was the day I discovered a valuable lesson in life: no matter how bad you really, really want something, you can't always get it because James Cameron is just waiting to crush your dreams because he's so mean. He'll probably sue me for libel just for saying that, too, so I'd better go ahead and retract it right now and say that James Cameron is nice. Really, really nice. (WINK!)

PORFLE PRESENTS: "CHOW YUN-FAT CAT!"

For those of you who don't quite understand what I've done here--basically, I have taken actor Chow Yun-Fat's head and placed it on the body of a dancing kitty cat!

PORFLE PRESENTS: "MY RUMINATIONS ABOUT VIN DIESEL"

One day, Vin Diesel suddenly appeared in my mind unannounced and hijacked a rumination I was having about Harvey Lembeck. So, consequently, here are some of my thoughts about Vin Diesel.

I have noticed that Vin Diesel has a human body. He is anatomically similar to most, if not all, human beings, in that his body functions in the same way that most human bodies do.

Vin Diesel has a head. Like most humans, his head is on the end of his neck. Human evolution seems to favor this location for the head.

Vin Diesel does not use barking as a means of communication, as dogs and seals do. I have noticed that he uses a form of human language instead -- specifically, English. He could probably simulate barking, but it is unlikely that he would be able to communicate with dogs or seals in this way, or at least not in any substantive detail.

Vin Diesel portrays fictional characters in movies. Someday, perhaps, he will portray actual historical figures, such as Benjamin Franklin or Millard Fillmore. It would be interesting to see a movie about Millard Fillmore that was advertised with the line, "Vin Diesel IS Millard Fillmore."

Vin Diesel cannot swallow an adult rhinoceros. If you have a photograph of him doing so, it has probably been photoshopped.

Vin Diesel has never hosted "Masterpiece Theater" on PBS. If he ever did host this show, many television critics would probably have a knee-jerk reaction such as the following: "Vin Diesel as host of 'Masterpiece Theater'? What an inappropriate choice for PBS to have made."

If they ever make a movie about the life of Vin Diesel, I do not think that Vin Diesel would be a good choice for the title role. I think that it would be more interesting to cast someone like Paris Hilton or Ron Howard as Vin Diesel. Vin Diesel himself could portray his mother, Mrs. Diesel. This would be more likely to garner him a major acting award.

If you were one of Vin Diesel's scalp hairs, it would be a hollow and meaningless existence. Every time you tried to grow past his scalp-line, he would simply shave you off. Then you would just sit around waiting to try again, knowing that when you did, he would shave you off again. What if his scalp hairs gave up and stopped trying to emerge from his head? They would probably build up around his skull until his head began to expand. Then one day the pressure might cause an explosive blast of hair from both of his ears, causing him to sport dual ear-Afros.

Thank you for allowing me to lend voice to my thoughts about Vin Diesel.

PORFLE VS. TELEMARKETERS

One day, the phone rang as I was eating a bowl of popcorn and watching a Roy Rogers movie.  Being the basically decent person that I am, I answered it, and immediately some guy started in with a breathlessly smarmy sales pitch.

"HI!  Don't hang up!" he barked.  "I have a special offer just for you!"

"Oh, yeah?" I shot back.  "Well, I have a special offer just for you--SHUT UP!"

Satisfied that I had put the idiot in his place, I started to hang up.  But then I discovered that my scathing putdown hadn't even fazed him.

"For a brief time only, you are eligible to receive a grand prize!  But don't delay!  Respond today!"

"Listen, stupid," I retorted.  "If you don't shut up right now, I won't delay--in KICKING YOUR BUTT!"

Well, it was as though this colossal turd couldn't even hear me.  In fact, he didn't even pause to listen while I was talking.  Boy, that made me so mad.

He just kept on blabbing away.  "You can choose between two great offers--ten thousand dollars in cash, OR...an all-expenses-paid weekend vacation on beautiful Lake Schwartz, deep within the heart of the scenic Shmendrick Mountains!"

Ah-HA!  So that's what it was--one of those scams where they offer you a vacation somewhere and you have to go to some kind of seminars or take a tour of a bunch of real estate they're trying to unload or something.  "I'll bet there's no way I'm going to be able to choose that ten-thousand dollars instead," I cunningly deduced.  And I was also firmly convinced that this "beautiful" Lake Schwartz was probably some mosquito-infested swamp with bloodthirsty hillbillies running around in the woods. 

With all this mental ammunition locked and loaded, I geared up to let this guy have it with both barrels.  "I'll bet that stupid lake is just some mosquito-infested--"

"You're probably wondering how we can make such an amazing offer to you at this time!" the guy interrupted.

"No, I'm not!" I countered.  "I couldn't care--"

"Of course you are!" he affirmed.  "Well, it's because we here at Feldman-Shapiro Industries Of America Incorporated (Limited) are in a position to offer you with no money down for a limited time only and totally without any hidden fees or obligations whatsoever this one-time-only deal of a lifetime of such incredibly astounding proportions--"

"SHUT UP!!!"  I screamed.  "SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUUUT UUUPPPP!!!"

"--that you will someday be telling your grandchildren about--"

"I'LL KILL YOU IF YOU DON'T SHUT UP!!!"

"--from the luxurious comfort of your very own three-story mansion on the shores of the beautiful Lake Schwartz--"

"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!"

That did it.  For an undetermined period of time, I lost my mind and went on a rampage.  Only by observing the aftermath later on could I begin to piece together what I had done during that time.  Apparently, I had grabbed a can opener, opened up several cans of whole-kernel corn, blackeyed peas, string beans, and spinach, found a bottle of Elmer's Glue, and created a huge mosaic of David Hasselhoff naked on horseback on my livingroom wall.  I had also fried three dozen eggs "over easy" and sailed them like Frisbees at a crudely-drawn target with the words "Jolly Egg-Toss Game" scrawled over it in Cheese Whiz. 

I still can't explain why I was wearing a rather shameless tube-top/miniskirt combo and some of those clear platform heels, or why my dog Buddy was also wearing the exact same outfit.  And to this day, a drunken Alec Baldwin keeps calling me in the middle of the night, blubbering, "Why, Babs?  Why won't you return my calls?"

Well, needless to say, the whole thing has forever tainted my enjoyment of watching "Night Rider", "Baywatch", or "The Roy Rogers Show."  And I can't even look at Alec Baldwin anymore without thinking of fried eggs and, for some reason, Twizzlers.  So whenever the phone rings these days and it's a telemarketer, I just politely--yet firmly--tell them that those hillbillies out at Lake Schwartz are going to have to find somebody else to squeal like a pig, and hang up.